Winning His Wings: A Story of the R.A.F.

by Percy F. Westerman

Von Peilfell had carefully counted the risk. He was a fluent speaker of English. His accent was almost faultless. Several years spent in England, including a period at a public school, had given him a remarkable insight into the life of an Englishman, while in pre-war days he had made the acquaintance of several British officers, with the sole view of making good use of the knowledge thus obtained when "Der Tag" dawned.

Having obtained official sanction, Von Peilfell proceeded to put his plan into execution. A slightly-damaged EG biplane had fallen behind the German lines, and its pilot had been captured. The machine was repaired; the Count, dressed in the complete uniform of the captured airman, set out just before daybreak to attempt his hazardous errand.

The German Head-quarters Staff knew exactly the aerodrome from whence the captured EG machine had come. The Count, therefore, decided to give that locality a wide berth, and, by assuming the rôle of a pilot who had lost his way and had been compelled to descend owing to engine failure, make his way to Le Tenetoir aerodrome, where, if his information proved correct, he would find the giant aeroplanes making ready for their flight to Berlin.

But when he alighted in view of the car carrying Lieutenant Derek Daventry, R.A.F., he unwittingly committed two grave errors. He was unaware that Derek, who was in the habit of piloting one of the somewhat small number of EG's, immediately took a keen professional interest in the apparently crippled machine. He was also ignorant of the fact that Derek was his antagonist on the occasion when both British and German pilots were unable to exchange a single shot; nor did he know that when he raised his goggles and grinned at his rival, that grimace had been indelibly printed upon Derek's memory. These two instances led to the Count finding himself under lock and key in a dug-out that served as a cell.

Like a caged bird Von Peilfell paced to and fro. He realized that his case was a desperate one, and that his shrift would be short; a drumhead court-martial at eight in the evening would be followed by execution at dawn.

For nearly an hour he maintained his restless promenade, a prey to dejection. The dug-out was barely twenty feet in length and seven in breadth, so that there was little room for exercise. He tried to formulate a plan of escape, but none seemed feasible. The place was unlighted, save by the dim glimmer of a candle set in a stable lantern. Ventilation was provided by means of a length of bent stove-pipe passing between two of the massive girders supporting the concreted and sand-bagged roof. The walls were heavily timbered, and, upon examination, found to be backed by cement. A flight of steep and narrow steps gave access to the open air, but at the top was a massive oaken door. Incidentally, the Huns who had constructed the dug-out, had removed the door of the Abbaye de Ste Marie, at Le Tenetoir, to serve a similar purpose for this subterranean retreat.

The heat was stifling, for, outside, the autumnal air was damp and humid. Von Peilfell began to feel oppressed by the weight of the leather flying-coat. Mechanically he unbuckled the straps, and threw the garment on the wooden bench that served as a seat and a bed. As he did so his eye caught sight of a glint of scarlet. The lawful owner of the flying-coat had been guilty of a breach of discipline by investing in several red-silk handkerchiefs, whereas, by virtue of an Air Ministry order, he should have provided himself with those of a khaki colour.

The Count consulted his wristlet watch—a Nurnberg timepiece studded with jewels. It was a gift from a number of his admirers when he was at the zenith of his fame. He found himself wondering why his captors had not taken it from him. The Germans invariably plundered their captives. Perhaps these Englanders would not do so until he was dead. He shivered at the thought. In another eight hours all would be over.

Then his thoughts went back to the square of scarlet silk. Even as he gazed dully at the sheeny fabric an inspiration flashed across his mind. He glanced at his watch once more. In another ten minutes or so he would be visited either by the Sergeant or the Corporal of the guard.

Grasping the handkerchief, he tore the silk into ragged strips. His next step was to place the lantern on the edge of the plank-bed, so that the strongest possible light fell on the floor. Then, holding the torn handkerchief, he waited, every sense on the alert, ready to act the moment he heard sounds of the visiting guard.